


A Desirable Compromise

by bees_stories



Series: The Long Road [3]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, Frot, Frottage, M/M, Sexsomnia, caught on video, dubcon, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All is not well at 221B Baker Street. Sex, lies of omission, and a memory stick of surveillance videos all contribute to the troubles. Confronted with a situation not entirely of his own making, John is forced to reconsider what he believed to be essential truths about himself and his relationship with Sherlock. Part Three of the Long Road Trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Desirable Compromise

***

"Sherlock?" 

"I'm here, John." 

Sherlock set aside his book and looked up. He'd been restless of late, too few interesting cases and one domestic conundrum preying at his mind. John stood a foot away from the bed and just out of reach. He seemed perplexed. He was, of course, asleep. Of the two forms of parasomnia John was experiencing, sleepwalking and sexsomnia, Sherlock found sleepwalking the most troubling. Given the haphazard condition with which they sometimes maintained their flat, John could do himself an injury as he traversed the distance from his bedroom to Sherlock's.

"I couldn't find you." 

"Now you have. Come to bed." 

Sherlock threw back the bedclothes and John climbed in next to him. He shut off the reading lamp and the room plunged into darkness. This was the fourth time John had sought him out since the behaviours started during their sojourn in Wales, and a pattern was beginning to emerge. In each instance there had been some sort of minor upset: a fight with his sister, a tentative relationship with yet another woman ended, a tense argument over a bag of body parts in the fridge. Sherlock wasn't sure what had spawned tonight's event, but no doubt it was something of a similar nature. 

John reached for him. They kissed. Sherlock found he enjoyed John's kisses, especially the slow, exploratory ones where it seemed the goal was simply to _be_ in that moment. Which wasn't to say he didn't enjoy the aggressive clashes that occurred when passions were at their height and kissing was as much about taking as giving pleasure. Those were in a separate class of their own. But if he were to compose a treatise on the classification of John's kisses, more data was necessary. He returned the first tentative brush of John's lips with one of his own, savouring the unhurried meeting of their mouths. 

Kissing led to touching. Sherlock hummed his approval as John began to sketch random patterns against his skin, his fingertips drifting without purpose from the top of his shoulders, over his arms, down his back and over his buttocks. In return, Sherlock nuzzled against John's ear, longing to mark him, but barely containing the urge as he trailed his tongue over his Adam's apple instead, memorising the taste of his skin. 

Sherlock had long since lost his reticence about returning John's advances. He knew, like all good things, eventually the nocturnal visits would come to an end, but he had given the situation due consideration and decided that until the inevitable occurred, he would take what was on offer. He paused his leisurely explorations to pull John's tee-shirt off and pressed him down onto the bed, the better to leave a trail of nips and kisses from his earlobe to his ribcage, over his belly, and down his thighs. 

John's erection strained through the gap in his boxer shorts. Sherlock freed it from the cloth confines, pulling the undergarment down over his hips and off, setting it alongside the tee-shirt so that later when he dressed his somnolent lover before returning him to his own bed, no time would be wasted. Practicalities completed, Sherlock returned his attention to far more interesting pursuits. He stroked John's calves and gently massaged his feet, earning low, breathy sighs for his efforts. He paid the other foot and leg the same lavish care, watching with satisfaction as John reached for him, urging him to settle between his legs.

Sherlock breathed in the essential scent of arousal as he nuzzled John's scrotum, carefully sucking each testicle in turn into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. He massaged the space below, stimulating the nerve bundle beneath the skin. Only when he had John writhing did Sherlock move higher, licking the delicate skin of his penis from root to tip and then sucking the head into his mouth, tasting. John whined and reached for him. Sherlock spent a few more leisurely moments teasing, and then kissed and licked his way up John's frame before lowering down and giving some relief to his own ardent phallus. He gasped softly as John stroked at the base of his spine and then pulled Sherlock tightly against his body, rolling them until he ended on top, straddling Sherlock's thighs.

They ground against one another. John's hand sought Sherlock's shoulder and clamped down in a near bruising grip. His mouth beckoned to be kissed. Sherlock plunged his tongue into the warm, wet depths and was rewarded with a low, pleasure-filled sigh. The sound sent a jolt of lust straight to his groin. He let his eyes flutter closed and felt the slow spiral of tension build within him as John gripped his arms and thrust his hips. They moved in near unison rubbing hot skin against skin, their mouths falling open as primal moans escaped their throats and then clamping closed against pleasure that bordered on pain. Their hands grasped, anchoring, touching, urging their bodies even closer. 

Torn between chasing the sensation and letting it come to him, Sherlock opted to let the experience unfold in its own time. He kissed John again, pulling them over onto their sides. John reached between them and captured their erections. Sherlock cupped his hand over John's and together they stroked as their kisses grew increasingly sloppy and fevered. 

"Oh, God. Oh, yeah," John moaned against his ear. He ejaculated, hot and slick, spattering their torsos with ropes of semen and giving Sherlock the last nudge his body needed to come undone. He gripped John's shoulder hard, stifling his own cries of ecstasy by burying his face against John's sweat-slicked skin. He lay tangled in John's embrace, knowing he should rouse himself and get them cleaned up and John back to his own bed, but Sherlock lingered, caught up in the afterglow and the taste of John's mouth as they kissed with unhurried ease. He fell asleep, happy and sated.

***

John shifted in his not-quite sleep and frowned. He tried to roll over, but found his motion constricted. Frustrated, he opened his eyes. "The hell?" He was in Sherlock's room, in Sherlock's bed, naked, with no memory of how he'd got there. He disentangled from Sherlock's embrace, got up, and in the pale light looked down at his sleeping flatmate. He raised one hand to his forehead and pushed it through his hair. The motion caused the skin over his stomach to catch and he looked down, rubbing his hand over his abdomen. A sinking feeling made his stomach queasy as he sniffed his fingers. 

Sherlock stirred. He reached out and frowned as he patted the empty space on the mattress. "John?" he muttered, and then opened his eyes and sat up. 

So much for sneaking out. "What's going on?" he asked. Sherlock blinked at him, his tousled hair and kiss swollen lips evidence of just what had gone on. Even half asleep and silent he could be irritating as hell. "Fine. That's obvious," John conceded. "Here's a better question. How did I get here?"

"Under your own power," Sherlock replied. He wasn't more than half awake and seemed annoyed at having his sleep disturbed. "Are you coming back to bed?"

John reeled at the implication. "Are you suggesting that I sleep-walked my way from my room to yours and we had sex? While I was asleep?" 

Seeing that there was going to be no simple resolution, Sherlock ran a hand over his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and turned on the bedside lamp. Light seemed to do what John's ire could not, it woke him the rest of the way up and plunged him straight into insufferable mode. "I suggested nothing." Sherlock's innate dislike of being questioned was in full force and his tone bordered on belligerent. "I stated fact. You did sleep-walk, and you did initiate sex. I had no objection, so I participated willingly, in case you're concerned about issues of consent." 

This was unreal, but the evidence of his body told him Sherlock was telling the truth. "But I didn't!" John took a deep breath and let it out again. He tried to stare Sherlock down but got a placid gaze in return. "Has this happened before?" John asked softly. He dropped his gaze to the floor unable to meet Sherlock's eyes any longer. 

"Twice during our Welsh holiday," Sherlock replied, somewhat more gently. "Three, excuse me, make that four times since we returned."

They'd been having sex. Unprotected sex. There was dried semen on his skin. "What did we do?"

"On our first encounter you insisted on me performing fellatio, but in general you seem to prefer mutual masturbation or frottage." 

John glared. He knew what fellatio was but he'd never heard the term frottage. It sounded like some sort of French cheese, and yet supposedly it was something he enjoyed. The sick feeling intensified. He wasn't sure whose actions upset him more. The first flames of anger ignited, adding to the pain in his gut as he raked his gaze over Sherlock. "Why didn't you wake me up? Why didn't you stop me?"

"I tried. At first." Sherlock got out of bed. He went to his desk. "You're very persistent. After a while, I didn't see the point. I have video if you want proof." 

"You filmed us?" The flames flared, burning bright and hot. John felt an overwhelming desire to drive his fist into Sherlock's placid face. "You filmed us having sex. You bastard." John clenched his fist and held it stiffly at his side as he pushed past Sherlock and stormed out of the bedroom.

***

Sherlock sat at his desk. He edited the rough video of John's most recent nocturnal visit down to its most salient interval and saved the file to a memory stick. He could have followed John and continued to explain, but experience told him that anything he said would be met by deaf ears. It would be far better to let John calm down and then approach him when he was willing to listen to reason. Finished with his task, he glanced over at the bed, considering returning to it and his night's sleep, but he found he was no longer tired. He'd been procrastinating a blood analysis from a murder enquiry. The case was long closed and the victim gone to dust. The prime suspect was dead rather than awaiting the dock, so there was little reason for haste other than satisfying his curiosity and possibly restoring the honour of a family who claimed a member wrongly accused. He washed and dressed and then phoned for a cab, trusting by the time he returned from Barts, John's forgiving nature would have reasserted itself and they could talk like reasonable people.

***

John locked his bedroom door and collapsed onto his bed with his head in his hands. Six times he'd had sex with Sherlock. Six! And he had no memory of any of them. His head spun. Guilt and shame and anger washed over him in equal measure and he shivered, his body unwilling to decide whether it was hot or cold.

He was in shock, the medical part of his brain diagnosed. He needed to calm down and get a grip. A stiff drink was indicated, or a cup of strong sweet tea, but that would require returning downstairs to the kitchen and the possibility of another meeting with Sherlock. He got under the bedclothes instead and pulled a blanket over his shoulders.

Eventually the sick feeling passed leaving him feeling numb, which seemed an improvement. A glance at the clock revealed it had just gone four. John got out of bed long enough to retrieve his laptop, fired it up, and launched his Internet browser. Caught in the grip of indecision, his hands wavered over the keyboard, but finally his curiosity about the unfamiliar sex practice won out over learning more about Sherlock's other ridiculous claim.

_Frottage_ , it turned out, was a fancy term for dry humping, which should have been more than enough information, but John went to his favourite porn site, selected the 'gay' tab, and typed the word again. He chose a short film clip at random and watched as two very fit men in their middle thirties ground against one another, kissing and fondling to their mutual pleasure, and then he slammed the computer's lid shut just as the director closed in for the money shot. 

Several minutes ticked by as John got his breathing back under control. He launched the browser a second time and this time he typed in 'sleep sex'. He went to the Wikipedia page for a brief overview and found out it was a type of parasomnia called sexsomnia. Using the correct technical term, he searched further and read articles at several websites, noting that men reported the condition more than women, and that he'd experienced several of the common triggers. A sexual dry spell, poor sleeping habits, alcohol use, and stress all figured into his last few weeks. He didn't fail to note that the presence of a desirable, but unavailable bed partner was also a contributing factor. Suffers could be treated with Clonazepam. 

John sank back against his pillow, his computer balanced precariously on his lap, and shut his eyes. He felt surreal. He was a confirmed heterosexual. He'd never looked at another man once and speculated about what it would be like in bed. Granted, in Sherlock's case, early on he'd got a bit confused and they'd experimented, but it was just the once, and they'd had a laugh after, because even though they were good friends, the best of friends, the idea of them being anything more was ludicrous. But things had been different lately. Ever since Irene Adler had rocked Sherlock's world, he'd been different. And John really hadn't felt quite the same either. 

He glanced at the clock again. Five o'clock loomed. There didn't seem to be any point in trying to go back to sleep. He got out of bed and ran his hands over his skin. He wanted a wash, but he didn't want to risk seeing Sherlock. There only seemed to be one thing for it. John packed a bag with a couple of days worth of clothes, stuffed his computer and other electronics on top, and quietly as he could, left the flat.

***

Sherlock's footsteps echoed down the otherwise silent corridor. The situation with John had left him in an uncomfortable, shaken state. Unfamiliar anxieties pricked his confidence and disturbed his normal equanimity. He needed the balm of intellectual exercise to restore order to his system. The pathology lab at Barts was a welcoming refuge. He stood in its shadowy confines breathing the chemical scents of formalin and alcohol that clung to its walls despite the efforts to vent them away, and felt at home.

The experiment he proposed to conduct was tricky, even under optimal conditions, and the blood and tissues with which he planned to work were far from in a desirable state, time and poor technique when they were initially collected from the crime scene both played their part to complicate affairs. 

It was delicate work to isolate the organic compounds from the fragments of cloth on which they were trapped, and it took a considerable amount of finesse to isolate a sufficient amount of test material, and even longer to run the experiment twice, once in the standard accepted procedure that every court recognised as legitimate technique, and a second time using an innovation of his own that had yet to be approved. 

He had no recollection of her arrival, but Molly must have entered the lab and left again. When Sherlock looked up from his microscope, a cup of tepid coffee stood close enough that it was obviously meant for him, but far enough away that it was unlikely to be accidentally spilled. He drained the cup without noticing its taste and went back to his work.

***

John chose a direction at random and walked without purpose. Even in the shadows of pre-dawn the streets were filled with lorries and delivery vans, black cabs and other motorists. On the pavement, garbage skips and bins were set out for collection. Homeless people kipped in odd corners. Hookers wished each other goodnight as they headed for solitary beds. Pedestrians on their way to jobs with hellishly early start times charged down the street with more intention than he felt.

Eventually he tired and paused at a coffee shop that was just opening for the day. He selected a sandwich at random and ordered a large black coffee and consumed both without paying much attention to either. When he tipped the cup back and got nothing in return, he pushed out of his chair and set off again with no more purpose than when he'd entered. His feet carried him down more streets. There were fewer shadows and more people and John was forced to lengthen his stride and hug his travel bag close to keep up with the bustling throng. A bus pulled to the kerb and it was easy to join the queue and ride for a time and let the chatter of the commuters, the shop assistants and the clerks fill his ears. 

Those around him got off, and John followed. He walked a short distance and then he blinked in surprise when he was confronted by the sign for New Scotland Yard. He recalled there was a hotel that catered primarily to tourists nearby and walked across the street to its door. He checked in, took an antiquated lift to his room, and after finally taking the shower he had wanted so desperately earlier, fell into his bed and into an exhausted sleep.

***

Sherlock collated his findings, wrote a brief report to the solicitor who was handling the case for the family stating that the wrong man had been convicted, and emailed it with a copy cc'd to John for their records. He glanced around the room surprised to find it busy with technicians and pathologists handling their own cases. He disliked the lab under those circumstances. Inevitably there was some new student or transient researcher who wanted to make idle and boring conversation. He cleared away his workspace and wondering if John's temper had cooled sufficiently for reasoned conversation, left for home.

"You two got an early start this morning," Mrs Hudson said as she pushed the hoover out of his way.

Sherlock frowned at her. It was true he had left well before dawn, but she seemed to imply that John had accompanied him. "Where's John?"

She paused dusting the stairs and frowned. "Isn't he with you, dear?"

Sherlock could feel his frown turning into a scowl. "Obviously not," he snapped back, even though John's absence could scarcely be laid at Mrs Hudson's feet. "Otherwise I wouldn't have asked." 

Mrs Hudson gave him a shrug and a passive sigh, too used to his ways to take offence. "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually, Sherlock. Probably just went out to do the shopping," she said, and then went back to her cleaning.

Sherlock stalked up the stairs and into their flat. He dropped his satchel on the kitchen table and then looked for evidence of John's activities. Everything was as it had been the night before. The dish drainer was empty and there were no fresh coffee grounds in the waste bin. 

He went upstairs and hesitated in front of John's closed bedroom door before drawing a breath and then knocking. "John?" The only reply was silence. Sherlock leaned against the door and listened. There was no sound of occupation. No movement or rustling of clothing. Knowing he could scarcely raise John's ire further, he opened the door. 

The room was empty, the bed dishevelled and disarranged instead of being neatly made as was John's habit. The phone charger on the bedside table was empty. The wardrobe door open. John's travel bag and several items of clothing were missing. Sherlock pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed. 

John was gone.

***

Hunger gnawed his stomach when John woke. He looked out the window and saw the daylight was nearly gone and the car park below was in shadows. He took a second shower, dressed, and walked as far as a chippie with an off licence as a neighbour, bought his dinner, and returned to the hotel.

He ate fried fish and chips soaked in too much tomato ketchup and vinegar. He wasn't usually so freehanded with either, but everything, even the beer, tasted flat and uninteresting. The television was no different. The early news broadcast was full of the usual vapid celebrity scandals and global mayhem. He watched without interest until the food was gone and then shut the box off. 

Desperate for something to occupy his mind, he powered up his laptop and glanced through his email. He read a chatty letter from his sister full of apologies and promises to do better, three requests for Sherlock's services, none of which he would consider interesting enough to take on, and a message from the man himself headed 'We need to talk'. 

His fingers hovered over the delete key, but rather than following through, John closed the client and dug through his bag until he found his mobile. There was a string of text sent at two hour intervals and finally a voice mail timestamped half an hour earlier. He tossed the phone across the mattress and sunk back against the pillows, a second beer in hand.

***

Sherlock rang off from what was turning into a highly unpleasant conversation and retrieved his gun from the desk drawer. He checked the clip and then returned to the living room and took his frustration out on the wall.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson screamed, but it was in fright, rather than in pain, so Sherlock ignored her as he emptied round after round, alternating from a one hand to a two hand shooter's stance, until the chamber was exhausted. He ejected the clip, considered loading a fresh one, and then threw himself and the pistol down onto the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling counting the seconds until his landlady arrived to dress him down. She made good time, considering how earlier she'd complained about the state of her hip, and he let the sound of her scolding roll over him, finding it curiously soothing.

***

The next morning, John slept late. He called down for his breakfast barely before they stopped serving, and half an hour after that, a bellman arrived with a tray. He ate his eggs and toast without much interest, knowing he should do _something_ besides stare at the four walls. He drank coffee and watched the people coming and going in the car park, starting or ending their holidays. Some looked happy and excited, most of them looked stressed, checking mobiles or watches as they loaded bags into boots and clutched coat collars tight against the pervasive chill.

Ella's consulting room would make a change. He could sit in the chair and look out the window knowing whatever he told his therapist would be heard without judgement. Her questions would take him down paths John refused to follow on his own. Her insights might shine light in dark corners. And if she couldn't help, she would know of people who could. 

Or he could write a prescription for Clonazepam and have it filled in Sherlock's name. At least then he could sleep without fear of molesting someone unintentionally. 

He did neither. John finished his breakfast and walked to the tube station. He had no desire to visit comfortable haunts or see familiar faces. He wanted no one to ask how he was doing for fear he might reply. Instead he spent the bulk of the day being lulled by the noise of the train as commuters and tourists got on and off again, changing lines only when service was concluded and cars were taken offline for cleaning. Periodically he felt the vibration of his mobile in his pocket, but John ignored the device. Eventually he shut it off entirely as the other passengers pushed and shoved against one another, reading their newspapers, juggling their shopping, and going about business that seemed much more pressing than his.

***

John's fit of pique was growing intolerable. Sherlock tried calling Stamford and some of his other close friends, but no one had seen him. Growing concerned, Sherlock dialled the customer support line for John's credit card.

"Yes, hello," he said when the endless menu of autoservice options had been exhausted. "I'm afraid I've mislaid my card. Cancel it?" Sherlock considered the option seriously. Cutting off John's funds would be an efficient method of curtailing his wandering. "No. Not yet. Could you perhaps tell me the last place I used it? Maybe that would jog my memory." 

The customer service representative asked a series of so called security questions, all of which Sherlock answered without pause, and then gave him the address of a hotel. He thanked the woman, rang off, and prepared an package containing the memory stick of his encounters with John. Twenty minutes after he called the messenger service, a bicyclist knocked at the front door. Five minutes after the young woman pedalled away with Sherlock's package in her satchel, Lestrade arrived with Donovan in tow to confiscate all the guns in the house.

***

John frowned as the clerk waved him over to the desk. He was tired from his long day of aimless rambling, his head was splitting, and he was looking forward to climbing out of his clothes and into a bath. The frown deepened as he was presented with the padded envelope. No one knew he was staying at the hotel. He'd seen none of his friends since he left Baker Street, and hadn't return any of his messages.

He went up to his room, kicked off his shoes, and poured himself a glass of the overpriced water from the bottle on the hospitality tray, grimacing at its mineralised taste. The envelope was light, despite the padding, and when he shook it, John could hear something shift inside. He regarded the double layer of tape, tore the paper below it, and emptied the envelope over the bathroom counter. A memory stick clattered against the marble. John picked it up and examined it closely, turning it over against his palm. The brand was ubiquitous, he had half a dozen just like it in his desk at home. He glanced in the envelope and saw a scrap of paper. _Please watch_ was scrawled across the back of a Chinese menu in Sherlock's distinctive hand.

"Like hell," he said to the memory stick and dropped it, and the note, into the bin.

John flopped down on the bed. His phone buzzed against his side and he frowned, he had no memory of turning it back on. With a sigh, he dug it from his pocket. The display read _Mycroft_.

"What?" John barked into the receiver, giving vent to his irritation at the situation at large, and at Sherlock having successfully hunted him down. 

"Oh my, you are in a testy mood," Mycroft replied mildly. "No wonder Sherlock is upset." 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asked, not because he cared, but short of disconnecting – which was a risky thing to do when the man on the other end of the line had dozens of methods of teaching respect, most of them unpleasant, at his disposal – it was the shortest way of ending the conversation. 

"I would like to get fewer calls from Scotland Yard regarding my brother's antics," Mycroft replied, sounding considerably put out. "Consequently, though I loathe to get involved in his personal affairs, I find it necessary to ask that you and he resolve whatever the issue is that has you staying in a mid-priced hotel and Sherlock terrorizing his landlady." 

"What's he done to Mrs Hudson?" Given recent events, John had a sudden stab of real fear for a woman that he thought would never be subject to Sherlock's darker moods.

"For the moment, nothing a few kind words of reassurance by your good self, and the services of a builder can't cure," Mycroft replied. "The legal issues I'll dispense with myself, although I'm afraid you'll need to take charge of a new gun safe and attend a mandatory safety certification course at Hendon if either one of you is to be allowed to continue to hold your permits." 

"Oh, God." John took a deep breath and let it out again as he imagined just what damage Sherlock had done to the flat this time. 

"Do I have your assurances that you'll give this matter your most expedient attention?" 

John glowered at the phone, a sharp stab of resentment at Mycroft's officiousness fanning the flames of his earlier upset with Sherlock. He wondered what it would take to be shot of both Holmes brothers, and then he realised Mycroft was still waiting for an answer. "I'll think about it," he said, and rang off. He weighed the phone in his hand, sighed, and called Mrs Hudson, just to reassure himself she was all right. 

He listened to her rattle on about Sherlock and his pistol, and Lestrade's visit the next morning. Strictly official. Sgt. Donovan snapping photographs of the damage Sherlock had done to the walls and the fixtures until the nice inspector took the camera out of her hands and stuck it into his own pocket. He had taken away Sherlock's guns, of course, and that had left Sherlock in a frightful mood.

"But you're okay?" he asked, cutting through her rambling account and feeling tremendously guilty and then resentful for the guilt trip. 

"I'm fine, dear. But I do wish you and Sherlock would kiss and make up." 

John cut her off before she could say another word and scrolled through the rest of the voice mails and text. He stared at one in disbelief. _I consulted Sarah. No display of parasomnia in her presence. Harry reported the same. SH_

"Checking up on me!" The irritation John had felt earlier swelled to a full blown rage. He cocked his fist and swung at the wall, turning his body away at the last second so his knuckles only skimmed the plaster. 

He pressed his back against the wall he'd nearly damaged and stared at the ceiling, considering the new information even though he resented its source. One of the worries that had plagued him since he'd learned of the sexsomnia was the notion that he had acted out with his other bed partners. Granted none of his former girlfriends had said anything, but according to the reading he'd done, there were plenty of ways his actions could have been misinterpreted as normal sleepy fumblings. 

The intense burst of rage did more to restore his equilibrium than hours of endless rambling. John went to the bin and retrieved the memory stick and Sherlock's note. He set up his laptop on the little desk, stuck the stick in the right space, and waited for the machine to accept the new drive. 

There were two video files to chose from and a README file. With a sigh, John opened the text document first. 

_When it became apparent your nocturnal activities were developing a pattern, I started to film them. Not out of any prurient motivation, but because I knew you might want a record. ~ SH_

With a few clicks the first video file loaded. John watched himself get out of bed and leave his room. There was a pause and the action picked up again as he climbed into bed next to a sleeping Sherlock and snuggled close. 

Sherlock did try to dissuade John's advances, rolling onto his side and burrowing his shoulder further under the blankets as John groped him. But eventually his resistance faded and he turned into John's embrace. Sherlock's kiss was sweet and welcoming. He really didn't seem to mind as John caressed his shoulders and chest at all.

A few minutes later the action really began to heat up. John watched with his jaw agape as he stripped away his tee-shirt and boxers, and he and Sherlock began to grind against one another. 

The lid to the computer closed with a thump and John rested his splitting head against it as the images replayed unbidden through his mind's eye. It was possible Sherlock had gone to a great deal of trouble editing the footage to reduce his involvement in what had occurred, but it was just as likely he hadn't. What had he done exactly? What had they both done? 

Sherlock had made no bones about the fact he enjoyed sharing a bed. Of late, he'd developed an odd penchant for cuddling, though his daytime behaviour was just as standoffish and no more affectionate than it had ever been. 

Irene Adler had rubbed John's face in how much of a couple they were, and how much he loved Sherlock, despite his protestations to the contrary. She'd gone out of her way to make him jealous by flaunting that she could give Sherlock something that John would not.

Sex. It was all down to sex. 

John restarted the video and made himself watch both files all the way through to the second clip's conclusion. The screen froze on the image of him wrapped in Sherlock's embrace as they faded (or at least Sherlock did), into sleep. 

Irene Adler was right and he was wrong. And it seemed when his waking mind was shut off the rest of him had no trouble admitting that his feelings for Sherlock were more than platonic. The trouble they faced was his fault, as much as Sherlock's, but he had no idea what to do about it.

***

Sherlock stared at the display of his phone, debating. John had more than enough time to receive the memory stick and his note, ignore it for a suitable interval and finally give in to his curiosity, and yet there had been no contact. He typed the first words of a new plea and then erased them, flinging his hand, and the phone, down against his mattress. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Some things were best done face to face.

He pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck against the chill night air, and went outside to hail a cab.

***

The phone rang, startling John out of the grip of malaise. It wasn't the ring tone of his mobile, which he'd finally reset out of 'quiet' mode, but the house phone.

He'd replayed the video files through a second time, pausing the action repeatedly to study the images on the screen. A cold shower followed. It soothed his aching head but did nothing to help clarify his thoughts, so John stretched out onto the bed to ponder his feelings. Images continued to dance before his closed eyelids. Sherlock as they kissed, his face drawn in stark lines as passion stripped away his veneer of detachment. _His_ hands, eager and seeking as they roamed against Sherlock's naked skin. The pair of them locked in a post-orgasmic embrace, fading into sleep.

The phone rang again and John fumbled the receiver from the cradle. "Yeah. Sorry, yes?" 

An Italian accented voice informed him he had a visitor. Fearing Mycroft had sent a stooge to drag him home, and wishing to avoid a scene, John requested that he be sent up.

***

Sherlock rode the clattering, old fashioned lift and as it slowly climbed its way from reception to the third floor, he wished he'd taken the stairs instead. The delay was an agony, just as the cab ride had been that had preceded it. He needed this unpleasant state of affairs ended.

Everything about the current situation annoyed him, as it usually did when Sherlock had to concede Mycroft might be right. Mycroft warned against emotional attachments, especially those involving sex. They were a disruption to rational thought and wasted time better spent on other, more serious pursuits, and that was when they weren't throwing one's life into a completely chaotic state. But Mycroft's being right didn't change the fact that he had developed an attachment to John. A strong attachment that he had no desire to see severed. The door grumbled open at last. With a determined intake of breath, Sherlock strode down the corridor and knocked at John's door.

***

The thump against his door was determined. John sighed. It was definitely one of Mycroft's goons. He looked through the peep hole to confirm his suspicions and gaped at a fish-eyed distortion of Sherlock's face. He turned his back and pressed it against the door, closed his eyes, and gathered strength, feeling as vulnerable as when he faced live fire. "Right." Sherlock knocked again, more hesitantly this time, and John opened the door. "You better come in."

"John." Sherlock sounded relieved to see him. 

"It's not much." John waved his arm around the compact space. He picked his travel bag up out of the chair but Sherlock didn't move. He stood near the door as if he wanted a clear line of escape. 

"Did you get my message?" Sherlock asked. "Did you watch?" 

"Yeah," John replied, and flashed on an image of their bodies entwined. "Some. A bit." His tongue felt thick and clumsy. He wasn't sure what to say. Silence stretched. Finally, feeling hopeless, he glanced up to see Sherlock's face. It was set in over-controlled lines. Only Sherlock's eyes gave some clue to his feelings. There was anxiety there, and sadness. He didn't want to deal with Sherlock's turbulent emotions, it was hard enough to keep a lid on his own. John looked away. 

"Is this the point in the conversation when I should reassure you again that what occurred was consensual and your performance was more than adequate?"

A flush of heat surged over John's cheeks. His skills as a lover weren't supposed to be relevant, but it was nice to know that Sherlock hadn't thought him a total numpty between the sheets. "No, but thanks." He glanced up, just for a second, before he looked away again. "What are we going to do?" 

"This isn't about us, John. This is about you." 

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. He heard the flat detachment of his voice and knew it for a lie. Sherlock was just as invested in the outcome as he was.

"It's possible that your next liaison will satisfy your sexual urges and curtail your nocturnal wanderings," Sherlock continued in the same, offhand manner. It tore at John's heart in a way he could have never anticipated. "Nothing need change between us, if that's the case." 

"And if it doesn't?" he asked. 

"We could continue to occasionally share a bed. Although I would concede a preference that you be awake at least some of the time." 

"Friends with benefits?" John said, mulling the idea. He felt the first stirrings of hope and dared to glance upward, wondering if he would still see anxiety in Sherlock's face. Instead, he was startled by the blank look that meant Sherlock was trying to assign a meaning he understood to John's words. He gave his friend a disgruntled sigh, but felt a sense of relief as the first faint glimmer of their old camaraderie broke through the tension. "Would it kill you to keep up with contemporary language?" he grumbled. "Just sex, Sherlock. No strings attached." 

Sherlock nodded. "Essentially, yes." His expression became regretful. "You don't want me to be your boyfriend, John. I'd be a spectacular failure at it. You'd come to resent me, and finally, you'd hate me. I'd rather if that never happened." He paused. "This might be a desirable compromise." 

John had his doubts. "I don't understand you." He chuckled mirthlessly, releasing nervous tension, and felt no less confused. "I don't understand either one of us. How can we be so bad at this, Sherlock?" 

"Relationships have never been my strong suit," Sherlock replied. "I have tried to warn you." 

"Yeah. You did. And then you gave me emotional whiplash with all your mixed signals." John looked up at his friend, the one he had sought out whilst in the grip of sleep and had made his lover, and pulled him into an embrace. Their bodies aligned, pressing close in a way that had already become innate, and he leaned up and brushed his lips against Sherlock's. It felt right, as did the swell of anticipation that tugged at his groin.

"You know – " John felt very bold, very reckless, as a pulse of adrenaline heightened his senses and he reached up to kiss Sherlock again. " – all of this started in a hotel room," he said as they parted. "Maybe we ought to … " He trailed off, confidence fleeing as rapidly as it had appeared. Insecurity stabbed at his guts. Just because Sherlock had said he wanted to have sex with him didn't mean he wanted it _now_ , and even if he did, it didn't mean all of his hangups were going to magically disappear.

Sherlock pulled off his coat and dropped it over the chair. He advanced until John had no choice but to fall back onto the mattress. They kissed again, this time doing a proper job of it. John knew his timing probably was awful, but he couldn't help it, he laughed at Sherlock's predatory expression, relief flooding over him as all of his fears and doubts burbled away on the tide of mirth. Sherlock frowned, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he tried to parse the joke. "Never mind," John said between giggles. He pushed Sherlock onto his back and pounced.

end


End file.
